In The Shadow Of The Giving Tree

Lately, I've been doing some difficult thinking about why relationships fail. Now, we all know why some relationships fail. For better or worse, it is simply true that some relationships are ill-advised, ill-executed, and ill-fated from the beginning, for a variety of reasons. But there are others, relationships between people who are seemingly mature, emotionally capable, strong and stable, who have a good foundation and a high capacity for love, and I think we are all more puzzled when these types of relationships don't succeed in the long-term, both for those we know, and even for ourselves. Honestly, some of the divorces I know have shocked me to my core, and none more than my own. And an over-analyzer like me has to stop and wonder--is there a common theme? A reason that is more than just individual circumstance, why so many seemingly solid relationships eventually founder and fall?

Obviously, I don't have the answer. But there is something I've observed that is at least common to many of the relationships that are close to me, and I believe it is relevant to many more. It goes back to something I have spoken and written about many times, both here on this blog and elsewhere, a thought from theologian Henri Nouwen, about how the identity of every human is as the Beloved of God. I've mentioned before that Nouwen even goes so far as to call this the "core truth of our existence".

In his powerful essay "From Solitude to Community to Ministry", Nouwen says that being able to hear the voice that calls us Beloved comes from practicing the discipline of solitude. (If you haven't read this essay, by the way, please do. I don't care who you are, or whether you believe all this God stuff or not, just take a few minutes. I think you need this in your life.) Solitude, Nouwen says, does not equal loneliness; knowing yourself as the Beloved is solitude, holding that knowledge at your core, not needing to have it supplied from an outside source. Holding onto that truth, listening to that voice before all others, is what enables us to enter into community, into relationships with others, without having to expect others to provide this for us. Rather than loneliness grabbing onto loneliness, for those of us who truly know ourselves as the Beloved--in the center of our being, our guts, resounding through our whole being, he says--we can enter a relationship prepared to give without reservation, without expectation, without keeping score. We will be giving out of our overflow. We will be able to forgive others for not loving us perfectly, unconditionally. We will not need them to do this for us, because we are filled up inside, in all the places that matter, with the knowledge that we are God's Beloved daughter or son, that no matter where we have been or what we have done, we remain in His favor.

NOT knowing yourself as the Beloved, however, is a vacuum inside.

In the well-known children's book The Giving Tree, author Shel Silverstein tells us the story of a tree who loves a little boy, and as the Boy grows up through every stage of life, the Tree is there to give whatever the boy needs. The Tree, deeply rooted, drawing its sustenance from deep within, has much to give, and is made happy by loving the Boy, and by seeing him happy. The Boy, however, is always roaming, looking for fulfillment in first one thing and then another--at first finding it in the simple pleasure of being with the Tree, but when this proves inadequate, seeking it in young love, then a house of his own, then a wife and family, and at every turn coming back to the tree in sadness and dissatisfaction, asking always for the next thing he believes will fill the void. In the end, after the Tree has given everything--its leaves, fruit, branches, and even its trunk--and has nothing left to offer, the Boy returns as an old man, looking only for a place to sit and rest, and sits down, satisfied, on the withered stump that remains.

This story is often lauded as an example, a model of selfless giving to be emulated, which I don't believe it to be. Yet even if the ending of this tale was a desirable outcome for both Tree and Boy, in my experience, this cannot be how the story ends in life. Every time, I am surprised that the Boy-turned-man does not douse the stump with gasoline and set it alight, crying out over the crackling flames in his pain and emptiness, "I need wood to make my cane! YOU NEVER LOVED ME!" Because a person who needs a partner to fill them up can never be satisfied; this is not work that can be done from the outside. The Tree will give and give until it is nothing but an old, barren stump, this much is true--but even then, the Boy will never truly feel loved until he knows he is Beloved, and this is not something that can be given to him by another.

So on this the relationship founders, and ultimately falls. One who does not know himself as the Beloved can never forgive our failure to love him perfectly. And there is much--so, so much--to forgive, since none of us, no matter how well-equipped to love, can ever love perfectly. And every one of our many failures to do so is seen by our loved one, that unknowing Beloved, as a rejection, an insult, an abandonment, a wound. Our failure to love him as he deserves is a failure to confirm that he is worthy of love.

As a result, every action of our unknowing Beloved in the relationship can be justified by this, our failure to love adequately. To me, the most poignant and true moment in the Giving Tree story is when the Boy comes to ask of the Tree nothing but wood to make a boat "that will take me away from here", demanding the Tree itself to help him find happiness far away. After all, when we fall short of what is needed, what is left for our loved one to do for their pain but punish us with silence, treat us abusively, seek better comfort in the arms of another lover, a companion, a friend, or a find a new life far away? We were those who were supposed to LOVE them, love them in the way they most deeply needed, that affirmed their worthiness of love and belonging, in the way that made them truly know themselves as Beloved. And we accepted this--this awesome, terrible, impossible responsibility. But there is only One who can call us Beloved, so in doing so, in taking this responsibility that was never ours, we have made a terrible mistake, one with the most serious consequences for both us and the ones we love.

On the front flap of the book cover on my copy of The Giving Tree, the publisher describes the role of the Tree in the story as "a serene acceptance of another's capacity to love in return".  And perhaps this is where the trouble lies. As we enter into relationships with others, do we look for solitude that can join with solitude? Or do we blithely attempt to create in ourselves the solution to another's loneliness? Are we drawing, always, back to the only one who calls us all Beloved, inviting others to join the Beloved community? Or do we rush into the breach, giving, giving, giving, leaving nothing but a withered, barren stump of ourselves, the memory of Beloved community only a wisp of smoke in our wake, serenely accepting our loved ones' inability to give in return, bereft of the knowledge of themselves as Beloved like us? We have contributed to our own downfall--to ours, and to theirs. It's time to stop. For ourselves, and for the ones we love, we must find the strength to swallow our pride, embrace the limits of our purpose, step out of the shadow of the Giving Tree, and into the surrender of community as it's meant to be. Only then, as Nouwen says, can we create space in which God can act and speak; and then, he assures us, something surprising will happen. In our total surrender, he tells us, God will act to make us, not accomplished, but fruitful, as He acts through us to call others back to Himself. And in the end, only that will make our joy complete.

10 Unnecessary Items In The Work Refrigerator

1. Bag of potato chips
2. Package of Hostess cupcakes
3. Plate of graham crackers with frosting
4. Open, half-empty bag of potato chips
5. Plastic tub of sour-cream-and-onion-flavored crackers
6. Snack-size bag of white cheddar popcorn
7. Crumpled, empty bag that used to contain potato chips
8. Large, zippered insulated cooler--also empty

9. Open pack of half-eaten oatmeal cookies

10. Jar of peanut butter

Secrets Nicole Knows

Over the last few days, I've been watching the fascinating documentary on the Simpson-Goldman murder case called "OJ: Made In America". One of the things that makes a good documentary, and this one is no exception, is that it's a deeper exploration of many themes, factors, and issues that have bearing on the particular person or event that's featured as the subject. Documentaries open things up to us in ways we haven't experienced or thought about, never realized, couldn't have understood, without hearing the voices of those who were there, who lived it, who know. Five episodes of this one, each 90 minutes long, are not only about the murders, or even about OJ Simpson himself, but about the elements of inequality and injustice in America, police brutality, race relations, and the role of media in culture, all of which are much larger issues that continue to be relevant to life and society in our contemporary setting.

While a lot of time is spent exploring the complex and nuanced relationships between black and white Americans, police and the public, celebrities and the media, and others, though, not much attention is given to the interplay between abuser and battered spouse. Maybe it's because the situation seems straightforward enough to speak for itself. The abuse is documented thoroughly. Maybe no one thought there was much more to say. He beat her. He terrorized her. He killed her. (Maybe.) That's all. But I've been drawn to Nicole. Nicole is the silent witness, present every minute. She hasn't spoken--there are interviews with everyone else who had anything to do with the case, the people, or the time period, there are clips from TV news, tapes of legal testimony. But Nicole's voice is heard only on the recordings of 911 calls. Nevertheless, she has called out so strong, so clear to me. All the way through, if you can hear, she is telling the story, revealing the secrets, explaining to everyone, to all of us, the things that only those who have been there can understand. In her story, so intertwined with his all the way through her death, here is what she tells us about life in an abusive relationship.

You will exist in a reality that only you inhabit.

OJ was universally loved and revered. It would have been hard to find someone who found him anything other than an all-around great guy--charming, pleasant, personable, kind. Hours and hours of TV footage attest to it. Those close to him--friends, family, co-workers--adored him. In one interview, a family friend who knew about an early incident of abuse spoke about why Nicole was afraid and reluctant to let others know. He said, "She thought her family would take OJ's side."

Life with an abuser creates two alternate realities; the daily lived experience of others is in direct conflict with your own. Everyone else you know will live in a world where your abuser is charming, fun, kind, likeable--harmless. Imagining him violating the rules of that world will be, for all who live in it, unthinkable. But this will not be your reality. You will live in a world where rules do not apply. The unthinkable happens routinely, but always unexpectedly, unpredictably. The forces that govern your reality will be known only to you, but more importantly, they will be incomprehensible to others; even if you tell, you will not be understood, or possibly even believed. Others might think that your abuser lives in this world with you, but they're mistaken. The two of you are never, ever living the same reality. In his world, the unthinkable makes sense. It is both predictable and justifiable; it can be reconciled with the experience of him that is truth for everyone else. He sees no conflict. He does not experience your pain. In your world, it is only you--you alone will try to understand, navigate, and survive the chaos, confusion, and danger that no one else sees and no one else experiences.

You will be your abuser's primary partner, helper, and support system in your own mistreatment.

Police were called to the Simpson residence for domestic disturbances many times. OJ's first arrest, the infamous New Year's Eve 911 call, was simply an outlier in a continual series of police interventions. In one interview of the series, LAPD Detective Mark Fuhrman is describing a previous domestic disturbance call he responded to at Rockingham, in which OJ was wielding a bat and had smashed all the windows out of Nicole's car, while she cowered in terror, sobbing, in the driveway. After de-escalating the situation until the bat was relinquished, Fuhrman asked Nicole, "Do you want to file a complaint?" Her answer? The same as on all the other calls. No. After that New Year's Eve, when he was actually arrested due to the incontrovertible physical evidence of abuse, OJ was in danger of losing much of his public standing and many of his corporate endorsements. The CEO of Hertz corporation describes how that company came to their decision to stand by Simpson--Nicole called him personally to tell him it was all a misunderstanding, and everything was fine.

No one will be a greater apologist, protector, or PR manager for your abuser than you will. One of the cardinal rules of your universe will be that no harm or inconvenience must come to him, and it will be fully your responsibility to make sure this happens. He will expect it of you; you will expect it of yourself. If you fail, no one else will pay the price. It might seem to others that if you allowed him to experience the negative consequences of his mistreatment of you, that would be in your best interest, would protect you somehow. But you will know the only way to protect yourself--make sure that nothing, nothing bad ever befalls him, especially something that would be directly because of you.

You will never, never--not ever--be completely safe, protected, or free from any hurt your abuser could do you.

Nicole had all the resources of a wealthy woman at her disposal, and she used them. She left the relationship. She moved away. She started seeing someone new. But there was no moving beyond the place where OJ's actions could hurt her. In a 911 call made long after her relationship with OJ was over, as he rages and swears in the background, forcing his way through the back door of her new home, the 911 dispatcher asks her to stay on the phone until help arrives. Nicole's sense of urgency and despair is palpable as she replies, "I don't want to stay on the line. He's going to beat the shit out of me." The dispatcher urges her to stay on the phone, stay safe, but we can hear it in both OJ's voice and hers--he is coming for her, and they both know that no 911 recording will protect her.

You may succeed in moving beyond a relationship with your abuser. You may move forward, begin healing, start a new life. But once your life has been entangled with his, you will never move to a place where he cannot hurt you in some way, if he wishes. Maybe he will continue to attack, assault, or otherwise abuse you, as Nicole and so many others have experienced. Maybe he will simply follow you, watch you, be a constant, unwelcome presence everywhere you go. Maybe he will use the court system to harass you. Maybe he will insist on "being friends", now that your relationship is over, and continually make cheerful overtures that are just as controlling and manipulative as any abusive attack. Maybe you have children together, so he can hurt you in a thousand, million ways both big and little. If he decides to do none of these, to move on and leave you behind, then you may live free of him, at least for a while--he won't hurt you--but you will still always know that he can, any time he changes his mind. Other people may tell you that you are free now, that he no longer has power over you, that he can't hurt you any more. They will mean well for you, and they truly believe this, but Nicole knows better, and so will you. There is no new life where hurt cannot come to you.

You will always be beyond his reach.

One Simpson family friend, in an interview late in the series, explains something about Nicole that he says he believes always frustrated OJ. She was, he says, "unattainable".  Somehow, even though he had her in all the ways that seemed to matter--financially, legally, even physically--Nicole never completely belonged to him in the way he wanted. Nicole belonged to herself. And although she was at his mercy for a time, she took herself back. She took back her power. And even though he literally, physically killed her, he never had her. She lived her own life, she tells her own story. Even in her death, she remained her own. Life or death, she defeated him.

You may never be free from all the ways your abuser can hurt you, but you can still free yourself from harm. You can weather the hurt, whatever it may be, and retain your dignity, your independence, your strength, your power. These are things he can never take from you--you will never belong to him in the way he will try to make you. Hurt may have come to you, and it may come to you again, this is true; but you belong to yourself and yourself alone, and you will always, always be beyond his reach.

Things My Father Taught Me

A couple of years ago, I wrote a post on Mother's Day about things my mother taught me. In it, I said, "I have long been in the habit, when I receive any particularly profound compliment, of deferring any credit to my parents.  There is so much truth in this that it would be impossible to give anything like a comprehensive account of what my mother taught me, or how she shaped me, or influenced me, since the implications of the person I became, simply by being born into my family, are so far-reaching they cannot be articulated." This, of course, is just as true for my father's influence.

In many ways, in fact, my dad has not only been, but still is the most influential person in my life. Thoughts, ideas, beliefs, and expectations about life that were learned from and shaped by him are a central part of not only my own identity, but my goals and hopes for my children, and my ideals and aspirations for the relationships in all our futures. From me, "like my dad" is the highest compliment anyone can receive. He has defined the standard. This is true in too many ways to enumerate; however, as it's long overdue, I've decided to take a shot at some of the most significant ones. Here are just some of the things I've learned from Dad. 

1. Others' time of need is your point of grace.

Teaching is my family profession, and for most of my life, my dad taught junior high math and social studies. When I went into the classroom myself, it was always my preference to work with younger students--from fourth grade on down, and eventually as young as preschool. Once, I expressed some incredulity to Dad as to how he could stand to work with obnoxious junior-highers all those years. "It's a difficult time," he told me, "for all of them. A really hard time in their lives." For Dad, that was reason enough to be there. In retirement now, he often does substitute work, not in the classroom but as a principal. When I (again) expressed skepticism about the desirability of this as a job, Dad explained why it's so great to be the substitute principal--when you're the sub, you aren't responsible for the board or the budget or the personnel or the policies. You simply spend all day talking to kids who are in trouble.

This isn't limited to his teaching career, in case you're wondering. In the classroom, in the church, in the community, if someone is in need or in trouble, that's where you can find him--and if he doesn't get to them first, they come to him. I've spoken often of how the writing of theologian Henri Nouwen resonates so deeply with me. In my favorite piece of spiritual thought ever, an essay called From Solitude to Community to Ministry, Nouwen writes, "To minister, you have to be where the pain is." Christ calls us there, wherever the pain is, he says, not to fix or solve, not to do or advise, but "to have the courage to be with people." This compassion, Nouwen says, is "a great call. But don't be fearful; don't be afraid. Don't say, 'I can't do that.'....Trust that by throwing yourself into that place of pain you will find the joy of Jesus." Every day of my life, I have had the opportunity to see this truth lived out; Dad is the most courageous person I know in throwing himself into the place of others' pain. 

2. When you don't know what else to do, you can always do what you know is right.

When I found out my marriage was ending, the first thing I did was go to my parents and tell them what was happening. There was nothing that could be done, there was no way to help me, and I had no idea what to do to help myself. My dad listened to everything, and then he told me about fishing in Canada, in the box canyon. There is only one passageway in and out, but once you're inside, in the boat on the water, the tree-lined shore appears unbroken. You can't find the way out by looking. To find it, you simply have to go toward where you know it is--it only becomes visible as you come upon it. "That's what we're going to do here," Dad said. "We're just going to go toward what we know is right. And when we get to where we need to be, it will come clear."

So many times, life is complicated. We can't know the outcome, and we can't understand the circumstances. It's hard to see how things could ever turn out.  Nevertheless, there is always the opportunity to do the one right thing we know. We may not see, we may be operating only on faith, only by the compass even though our eyes tell us otherwise, but we can go anyway, just go toward what we know is right, as long as necessary until it all comes clear. 

3. Nothing is too hard for you.

My parents built the house they live in now, and they did it all over the course of a summer vacation, because it had to be ready to move into by the time school started. They did all the work themselves, and one of my clearest childhood memories is from that summer. In the memory, my brother and I are standing outside near the back wall of the new house. It is HOT. We are complaining. Our job is holding the siding on the house so that Dad can nail it down. Dad is saying, "Hold it still!" I was 10 that summer, and my brother was 7. I can't ever remember there being a question or a debate about whether it was possible for children under the age of 10 to help install siding. That was simply the job, so we did it.

I have never seen my Dad hesitate or balk at any necessary task, regardless of difficulty. Even now, he routinely undertakes tasks that most people would hire out to a professional, and he can out-work most men half his age. I often hear people use the expression, "I could never..." do some difficult thing, or "I don't know how you....". When I was in active cancer treatment, people often made remarks of this nature, and I have never been sure how to answer them. Most often, I settled for, "You could if you had to." The obstacles that life presents will happen on all fronts. Sometimes you will have to wait a week for the biopsy results, or singlehandedly manage a family vacation, or get used to sleeping alone, or lift a piece of furniture into the back of the truck and then up the stairs. The secret is, don't hesitate to do the task in front of you. You have to, and so you can. It's as simple as that. 

4. A shared life is real romance.

If you hang around my house for any length of time, you're likely to see my dad nudge my mom and utter one of his favorite phrases--"Isn't this romantic?" He says this when they are working side by side in the garden, when they are standing in the kitchen eating a bologna sandwich, and when they are engaged in almost any gross, difficult, or problematic task. "Barb, isn't this romantic?" With a mischievous grin that is guaranteed to cause my mom to roll her eyes and wave him away. The thing is, though, he's got it right.

Romance, real romance, is true partnership, and there is no one who exemplifies true partnership more than my parents. Romance isn't the flashy gestures, it's the daily details--it's less splash and more substance. Romance is doing the gross, difficult and problematic things, and doing them together. It's in the smallest, simplest moments and the hardest, most difficult seasons. Romance is cleaning the van together after your toddler threw up on the way home from lunch with Grandma. It's buying the kind of ice cream that you know the other person likes when it's on sale and eating it together after the kids are in bed. It's collapsing in a chair together, wordless, with ibuprofen, after a long, exhausting, difficult day. Looking for the guy who buys you flowers is fine, but it's more important that he helps you vacuum under the couch, instead of parking himself on it to watch TV while you're busy washing, drying, and fluffing his laundry. That's romantic. 

5. You are worth it.

If you've known me long at all, you've probably heard me say, "Both my parents were raised on working family farms." I firmly believe this way of life had a great impact on both my mom and dad, and therefore on the way I was raised. Growing up in a two-teacher household had a reinforcing effect on some of the same factors--namely, we were not an extravagant household. The values of my family include frugality, practicality, and necessity. Despite this, when it came to us kids (and Mom too, for that matter) my dad was always ready for the indulgences that were within reach. When we went out to eat, which was rare, since it wasn't often it could be afforded, and I looked at the appetizers and said, "Can I have fried mushrooms?" Dad said, "Sure!" even as Mom, likely conscious of how much we were already spending, was answering, "No, you don't need that." When I'd had maybe two driving lessons and I said, "Can I back the car out of the garage?" and Mom was already vetoing this terrible idea, Dad was handing over the keys. When I went wedding-dress shopping and I found the one I loved, but it was too expensive so we left it in the store, I woke up the next morning to my Dad's direction to "go back and get it". When I said I wanted a Keurig for Christmas two years ago, and Mom reasonably pointed out that it seemed like a rather expensive investment for someone who doesn't drink coffee, Dad bought me the 2.0 version that lets you make a whole pot.

Nobody needs to get everything they want, and even if life would allow it, it's not a healthy approach for parents to try to come as close as possible to making it happen. However, what my dad did for me was something much different. He told me, with these actions and many more, that not only what I needed, but what I wanted was important--that it was good for me to have fun sometimes, to be good to myself, to let someone else be good to me. That I was worth it, no matter what I might think or what anyone else might say. And when the frugal, practical me is struggling with the budget or my own common sense, and I'm getting ready to say, "You don't need any," this is one I try hard to remember, so my boys can know the same thing. 

6. Showing up matters.

In junior high, for some inexplicable reason, I was on the track team. This will be hard for anyone who knows me to accept, I know, but I was a distance runner. The reason for this is because, in the distance runs, perseverance is a virtue. If you're not fast, the coach still has to find a place to put you, and I wasn't fast, but I could finish. And my dad showed up to watch me finish last every time.

Now, I don't really know if he was at every single meet, but I know he was at enough of them to give that impression in retrospect, cheering me on from the sidelines, or sometimes even coaching me and calling out times from next to the track in the infield as I trudged past. And track isn't the only thing he showed up for. He has been there for everything I have ever done, and for every significant event, good or bad, in my lifetime, beginning on the day he drove to the hospital for my birth. He came to choir concerts, solo and ensemble contests, 4-H fairs, award ceremonies, spelling bees, Bible Bowl matches, and that one bizarre time when someone on the pom-pom squad got sick and I somehow ended up subbing for them. He was there in the hospital when I got my appendix out, and when I got my stitches out, and when I had pneumonia, twice. He helped me celebrate every Christmas and every birthday; he bought me roses on Valentine's Day. He was there when I graduated high school and when I graduated college, when I got married, when I got divorced, when I bought my first house. He came when my babies were born and when I had surgery to take out the cancer that would have killed me.

On Donald Miller's Storyline blog, author Shauna Neiquist published a post called, "Why It Doesn't Matter How You Feel About Your Friends". In it, she points out that if we feel love for others, think about them, pray for them, or even stay "involved" in their life in a way that has now become commonplace, through observation and limited interaction on social media, there is still little to no impact on the person we love if we fail to reach out and connect. There is no substitute for presence. It isn't really about quality time together--on some of these occasions, I only saw Dad from a distance, in the bleachers--nor is it always about being with someone in their time of need. But when I look back and survey every significant moment and memory of my lifetime, he is there. His role may have been different depending on the circumstances, but nothing of importance in my life has escaped his notice, or transpired without his involvement.

I realize how fortunate I am to be able to say that, and even more so that his consistent presence brings nothing but good in my life. He is now, as always, the person I trust and respect above any other; he is still the first person I go to when I'm in trouble and the last person I ask when I need advice. I've done more than just listen, or learn, from things he's taught me--I have lived into the person I've seen in him, and if I have realized even a fraction, I surely will have done well. So I'm grateful, on Father's Day and every day, for the chance to learn from the best. And I hope I turn out to be even half the dad I've had.